


I Would Say I Love You If I Thought That It You Would Stay

by Diablo_donnie



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Neither do I, Trombley doesn’t know what’s going on, guys being dudes, homoeroticism of a shared grave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 16:14:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30007527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diablo_donnie/pseuds/Diablo_donnie
Summary: Walt’s nice. Nice in a way that makes people like him, nice in a way that attracts people to him nice in a way that people appreciate in the aftermath of something bad. Walt’s nice to everyone.But Walt’s nice to Trombley too.
Relationships: Walt Hasser/James Trombley
Kudos: 1





	I Would Say I Love You If I Thought That It You Would Stay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kathikon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathikon/gifts).



> Hello I have seen generation kill twice so sorry if this is ooc. Happy rare pair exchange babies.
> 
> I’ve only been listening to post punk and folk punk while writing this so mini playlist vibe for this is:
> 
> Boys Don’t Cry - The Cure
> 
> The Passenger - Siouxsie and The Banshees
> 
> Transmission - Joy Division
> 
> Here Comes Your Man - The Pixies
> 
> Add It Up - Violent Femmes

Walt’s nice. Nice in a way that makes people like him, nice in a way that attracts people to him nice in a way that people appreciate in the aftermath of something bad. Walt’s nice to everyone.

But Walt’s nice to Trombley too. Nice in a way that makes Trombley want to duck his head and hide, nice in a way that makes his toes curl and face heat up. He hides it, hides it as well as he can, remembers the way his mother slapped him when he told her he wanted to kiss Jimmy Alton when he was 7, remembers the way his father would spit the word homosexual like it was made of venom, the taunts of ‘what are you, a faggot?’ following him through elementary school, middle school, highschool, the marines. 

You learn to bottle that shit up, so you do and it twists you into… something. Turned James Trombley into a weird psychopath who talks to his gun and shoots kids and wants to disembowel every damn dog he sees. His father rather he’d be a psychopath than a faggot.

“Are you alright, Man?”

Whenever Walter gives his attention to Trombley, it makes him want to hide. Paranoia creeping in, the feeling of everyone at all times knowing exactly what he is thinking about Walt. The fear that they'll know and they'll hate him. Walt’ll hate him. He wishes the marines never made him cut his hair, so he'd have something to hide behind. 

“Yeah, yeah I'm good bro. Why? You good?” Trombley has to squint to look at him, the man barely blocking the sun from where he stood, blonde hair glinting in the light.

“Well you've just been… odd recently. More so than usual”

“Why are you paying so much attention to me, you a faggot or something?”

The word rolls off Trombley’s tongue too easily.

Walt sits down beside him, shrugging. They were hidden by the humvee, facing out onto an open sea of sand, heat of the sun a thick blanket in the afternoon, and all Trombley can think, ashamed, paranoid, is ‘I want to kiss him.’

But, well, he doesn’t.

\-- 

Walt was the first person to see him after what happened to the camels, sitting down beside him and looking at him through blonde eyelashes like he was studying him, analysing what was wrong with him through sight alone. It made him want to crawl out of his fucking skin or grab him and shake him or just kiss him. Kiss him long and hard and forget about all of it. He hates how much he thinks about kissing Walt- when he sees him or thinks of him or just hears his voice floating down and filling the humvee from his position at the mark-19. It sits in his mind a lot. It makes him want to vomit. Makes him want to wash out his brain. He’s a goddamn sissy queer and it makes him sick. But he can't help it- he thinks about kissing Walt a lot.

Like now, pressed together in a grave, nothing but miles of sand around them, eons of stars above, in one of the few precious moments dedicated usually to sleep. Pushed together under camo netting, stars only visible through holes in your faux roof, nothing but the sound of wind over the barren landscape, and the snores of other lucky sleeping marines. Trombley thinks about how nice Walt is to him. Always so nice. 

“What do you think happens if we die here?” Trombley finds himself saying, “Like, we’re always told in the bible, right, that murder is like, super horribly bad. Yet we’re out here being told by our government that it's cool and good. And like… I did nearly kill those kids. Do you think i'm gonna go to hell? I think I will.” It all sort of comes out of him in a rush of air, like someone’s just blown up a balloon and let go without tying it off, a rush of oxygen sending it careening half way across a room. He finds himself embarrassed at the outburst, breaking the peaceful silence they had between them.

Trombley barely talks at all usually, clueless as to where this came from, Walt staring at him incredulously, before beginning to quietly laugh as he turns on his side to look at the younger. Trombley mirrors him, trying to ignore the fact he's pressed practically nose to nose with the blonde, within kissing distance, and a chorus of ‘faggot, faggot, faggot, homo’ makes it’s way into the back of his mind

“I don’t know, honestly. I'd like to think when I die I’ll be going somewhere nice, hopefully. Maybe if we die heroically, we’ll end up in valhalla like the vikings thought.”

His voice is soft and gentle in the hot night.

“I didn’t know that.” 

Trombley does, had a whole fascination with vikings when he was 6, but Walt's voice is so endearing, their faces so close.

“Yeah, they believed that if you died doing something truly brave and courageous, you'd end up in the halls of valhalla, dining with the gods for eternity until you were to be used as an army for Ragnarok, some super big mental viking doomsday.”

“That sounds… intense. You think when the vikings go to this big afterlife war then there's gonna be hordes of marines screaming down at them or something?”

Walt smiles, a big face splitting grin, and Trombley feels the butterflies coming to life in his stomach. 

“Yeah- yeah, it wouldn't be too far fetched, seeing as marines have been dying since like 1775.”

“But not all of them would be valiant and brave.”

“Probably not, especially if they had retards like Captain America in their battalion.” Walt shrugs as he says it, moving to lay down once more on his back. 

Trombley copies him, turning to look at Walt, only to find the blonde staring back at him with dark eyes, face lit with the speckled moonlight through the amo netting, and Trombley’s hit with the sudden thought of howbeautiful he is, and thinks fuck it, oh jesus-

“Walt, if I ask you something, would you promise you’ll keep it to yourself?” god he sounds so queer. Fuck. 

“Yeah man, of course.”

Walt smiles as he says it, tilting his head in the sand.

“How do you… how do you know you’re gay?”

There are, obviously, better ways to phrase this to not let Walt in on the fact that he has an infatuation with dick. Well, not dick in general, just uh… Walt’s dick. Yeah.

Walt looks at Trombley. Squints at him. “You don’t know if you’re gay or not?”

Trombley looks away. Shakes his head. “No.”

He wants to die. He wants to take it all back right now. 

“Come here”

Looking back at Walt, he shuffles over, pressing close to him. And then Walt is tilting his head and kissing him, dry chapped lips pressed against his. 

Ah. ok. Yeah.

Trombley’s, unfortunately, gay. And he… wants to kiss Walt more. 

Like, a lot more.

Walt pulls away, stares at him with those dark eyes. It's quiet, bar the roar of blood in his ears and the cacophony of his heavy breathing. Walt brushes a finger across his cheekbone- warm, calloused; a reassuring pressure. 

Trombley pulls Walt in again, kissing him again, and Walt grunts against him as he grabs at his flak vest with dirty fingers, pressed against each other in the grave as Trombley kisses him all hard and unknowingly, clacking teeth and biting lips and trying to, needing to, be quiet in the desert night.

Walt slips his tongue into Trombley’s mouth, moving a hand to come up and cradle the back of his head, scratching his scalp almost reassuringly as Trombley huffs and sighs against him, his own fingers clinging onto the back of Walt’s mopp suit. He's hard in his own mopp, pressed there uncomfortably against a warm body in a cold grave, lavishing in the taste and feel of Walt’s mouth against his own, in his own-

Walt pulls away, panting hard, heavy, one hand still clutching at Trombley’s flak.

“So, you gay?” Walt asks, and Trombley just stares at the blonde with big, owlish eyes.

“Uh- yeah. Yeah, I think so.” he’s hard in his pants just from making out with some guy, of course he’s gay. But Walt was too, he could feel it. Feel it against him. “Are… are you?”

It’s quiet. A thick, palpable silence.

“Goodnight Trombley.” Walt says, turning to lie on his side, away from trombley.

“Night Walt.” he says, doing the same.

They don't talk about it when they wake up.

\--

Walt is… confusing.

See, Trombley isn’t smart, like Sergeant Colbert is, or Doc or Poke. Nor can he faux intelligence like Ray or Q-Tip. He sits in the corner of Idiot Trigger Happy Marines with the likes of Manimal and Jacks, a corner of dunces who are only good at killing hajis and being the government’s cannon fodder.

So that's why he doesn't exactly understand what type of shit Walt’s doing to him. Some weird game to get into his head? He feels the paranoia creeping in when he thinks too long about it, the fear of Walt having told someone filling his mind, the idea everyone is watching and staring becoming unbearable because newsflash, Trombley’s a fucking fag who gets off on making out with other guys.

And he touches Trombleya a lot more, and talks to him a lot more, and stares at him a lot more. 

Shares graves with him a lot more.

But he says nothing. Just presses their shoulders together, rests a hand on his thigh under the mess hall table, stares at him in the dark, smiles at him. Trombley just wants him to kiss him again, wants Walt to kiss him again.

\--

Like Sergeant Colbert has said before, in war, all things come to a head. The same is applicable to romantic and or sexual tension between two active combat marines in Iraq. Now, Trombley doesn't exactly know what the phrase means, but he has heard it enough times in varying situations to be able to apply it in his own situations.

Like when he decided to do perimeter checks with Walt.

After the ‘Rob Zombie’ incident, Walt became… quiet. Distant. More reserved. Which sucked for Trombley, as he had begun growing used to thriving and feeding off of Walt’s unrelenting attention. 

“Hey, Walt, you know, I don't know why they're on your dick about what you did.” Trombley says as they walk, gripping his SAW with sweaty, dirty hands. “You were just obeying orders, they didn't stop driving so you had to shoot. Besides, it’s not like you shot a kid or anything, like I did. I think you're a great guy, honestly.” 

Trombley was never one for long sentences, or epic rants like Ray, but there was something about Walt that made him want to spill his guts, just open up and pour himself out for all of Walt to see.

Walt shakes his head as Trombley talks, picks up his pace and walks a few steps ahead of the other. Trombley stops in his tracks, the fear that he did something wrong again filling his stomach.

“Walt…” 

“What.”

Walt’s voice is harsh. Sharp. Biting. He turns towards Trombley and the brunette expects hate and malice in his eyes, aggression in his stance-

Walt just looks tired. So tired.

He takes a step towards the blonde, and another. Slow, like Walt’s a wounded animal.

“I… I really wanna kiss you, man.” 

His voice is soft. He feels vulnerable, exposed, open. He hates it.

Suddenly gripped by his flak vest, he’s tugged into an open office, the door promptly slamming behind them, and then Walt’s mouth is on his, kissing him, deep and harsh as Walt unbuckles their helmets, pushes his hands once more through Trombley's hair. Trombley groans quietly into the kiss, moving his own hands down to rest on Walt’s hips as they kiss, desperate and needy and wanton, a slide of lips and tongue and a mess of clacking teeth and saliva.

Walt pulls away, catching his breath, a string of saliva connecting their lips as he grinds his hips down against trombley’s, eliciting a soft whine silenced by Walt’s lips once more on his. He rubs back against Walt, before being pushed around and shoved against the wood slats, Walt kissing him, shoving his hand down Trombley's MOPP. 

Trombley sucks in a sharp breath as a hand curls around him, squeezing gently, Walt sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, effectively silencing Trombley from whatever noise he was going to make when he decided to pull this stunt. Trombley decides, in common courtesy, to spit on his hand and push it down the front of Walt’s MOPP.

Walt pulls away, presses his forehead against the other’s, and sighs softly. “Shit… ok…”

Trombley just watches him, eyes dark, lips bitten red. He gives Walt's cock a slow, experimental stroke causing said man to groan gently, eyes closed as he runs a thumb over the head of his dick, as if in retaliation.

Trombley buries his face in the crook of walt’s neck, grabbing onto him with his free hand, keening quietly into the fabric as they jerk each other off, Walt murmuring sweetly into Trombley’s ear, free hand on the back of his head, scratching at his scalp.

“That’s it, c’mon” Walt whispers into Trombley’s ear, “you’re doing fantastically.”

He just moans into Walt’s shoulder in reply, moving his hand against Walt, his hips thrusting up against Walt. It was just… a lot of Walt. His hand is wet and Walt’s grip is wet, wet and warm and inviting and so nice around his dick. So nice. Too nice.

After what seems like hours, trombley and Walt both red, panting, sweating in the heat of thick clothing and shared body heat, and trombley feels close, oh so close-

“Walt-” he rasps against the desert camo clad shoulder, which sports a lovely drool mark if you asked him, “Walt ‘m close…”

“C’mon, cum then”

He does so with his teeth buried in Walt’s shoulder. He hears Walt whisper his name like a mantra- a prayer- in his ear, and then his hand is… wet. Warm. 

Walt kisses him again. Soft and sweet against his lips. Trombley feels sort of… happy.

“C’mon, we gotta go back out there.”

Trombley decides he’d follow Walt through all of fucking Iraq if he got to be jerked off like that.

\--

Trombley feels… less like a freak. Less like he's three steps off having a paranoid mental break.

Walt kisses him now. Whenever they have a minute unseen, unnoticed, he’ll kiss his cheek. Sometimes it's a small press of lips to his forehead, or kissing his hand lovingly. And Trombley revels in it- in the attention and affection, in the idea of them leaving the military and… becoming something more. It just makes him feel all gross and sappy and… gay. 

Walt’s just… really nice.


End file.
